Well, it’s been
62 days … that’s the longest I’ve gone without reporting to a job in darn near
50 years.
I’m not used to
it yet.
It seems that a
day doesn’t pass without somebody asking me, “How’s retirement?” – usually with
a distinct tinge of envy if they’re among those still drawing a regular
paycheck.
If I was to
answer that with a high degree of honesty – which I confess I often do not
since entering into a fairly involved philosophical discussion with grocery
carts double parked in the produce aisle is generally inappropriate – my likely
response would be “odd,” and if the outstanding activity of the day had been
listening to the dog snore, with the addendum, “don’t give up the day job…”
Yeah, for me,
this has been an odd couple of months. To, overnight, go from the daily
hurly-burly of breaking news, encroaching deadlines and a demanding public to
the tranquility of the endless weekend leaves a guy feeling a bit like Wiley Coyote
over the cliff and suddenly suspended in mid-air. I keep waiting for
“beep-beep” and the inevitable unexpected.
Meanwhile, I’m
finding that old habits die hard. The eyes creep open about the same time
they’ve grudgingly crept open for the past 30 years. I still use three scoops
of coffee and the same amount of water, the same coffee cup and the same spot
to peruse the morning papers. The same shampoo is in the shower; I still listen
to MPR at lunchtime and the dog nags me to go out and then to bed the same time
as always.
But then there
are all those intervening hours…
I’d like to
claim that having all that unscheduled time has given me the opportunity to
accomplish those things that have long been pushed onto the proverbial back
burner, but no. There are dishes in the sink, clutter in the fridge, and
preheating the oven still sets off the smoke alarms. I remain indifferent to
dust bunnies; reject the allegation that my shower can become dirty though
contact with the soap and water that preserves my social acceptably; and
question the need for floors to be spic and span when I’m just going to walk
all over them anyway. Having ample time to tidy up hasn’t instilled a penchant
for tidiness … nor has it moved me to head for the gym, attend daily Mass, or become
a particularly persistent practitioner of the Corporeal Virtues.
On the other
hand, I believe I’ve also restrained my proclivity toward a number of the
Deadly Sins. I’m still eating no more than three meals a day – with the
occasional late night nosh as per previous practice. I’ve not yielded to the
lure of Netflix at noon, nor prowling Facebook into the wee hours.
And on the
positive side, I’ve been able to go with Dad to some medical appointments
followed by unhurried lunches and hours of talk of the past and of the future.
I’ve had time to lend a hand and an ear to friends and pick up a book or two I
otherwise hadn’t had time for.
Still, there’s
always the temptation to sleep late and drink heavily.
After years of
navigating the main channel, I’m suddenly bobbing about in the backwaters, and
though the scenery can be lovely and the respite momentarily refreshing, it
really doesn’t lead anywhere.
Which is a bit
disconcerting … a bit like death’s waiting room. Not a place I care to be.
Which is why I’d
describe this experience as “odd.” I’m not missing the strictures of the
workday and workweek, nor the obligation to tug the forelock, say “Yessir” and
kiss the otherwise unkissable; but, like the song says, “ya don’t know whatcha
got ‘till it’s gone…”
One of those
books I’ve picked up included an essay by the old Roman Stoic, Seneca. Entitled
“On Leisure,” he makes the case that life satisfaction lies in being useful, in
doing worthwhile things. Sixty-odd days of leisure have convinced me that
observation holds now as much as it did two millennia ago. So the challenge now
is to discover usefulness on my own terms; new adventures to replace the
security and satisfaction of “the day
job” I’ve left behind.
Gotta be better
than listening to the dog snore. Gotta be.
